


body and soul

by NekoAisu



Series: the Dawn and his chosen King [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Deities, God Noctis Lucis Caelum, King Nyx Ulric, M/M, Marriage Contracts, Romance, Tributes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-18 01:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16107899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: To a war god, ceremonial drums are their heartbeat. The wine poured into the fire their boiling blood. To Noctis, the farthest thing from a strategist, or the sort to bless his Favored with untameable strength, it's unfamiliar to the highest degree.He's used to quiet prayer, incense left to fill the marble of his temple in delicate swirls. He's used to quietpeople.But, of course, what he's given for his favor is a king on his altar whose presence alone speaks volumes in a single moment.





	body and soul

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Radical Anus (Shokubenii) for kicking my ass into actually writing this and to lockis for putting up with my world-building spam! You're both absolutel gems!! <3

There’s something to be said for quiet worship.

Noctis knows the whisper of socked feet against the worn marble of his temple more easily than he does his own mind. He knows how it’s always joined by whispers of prayer that’s more of a greeting to an old friend than a chain of demands the way some others hear.

He’d protected what had yet to come in his Time, when he was mortal and desperate to save a world that had already taken everything from him. Seeing worshipers at ease in his home is balm to old wounds.

(The sting of his back is an old nemesis, even in godhood, but he’s long since learned to sleep through the centuries until it eases.)

What’s unfamiliar is the gilded procession, the drums and voices raised in song he’d heard but once on the day his temple had been completed. It had been a call to him, then, demanding his approval for their tribute. Now, it was much the same.

Noctis ignores it, shutting out the calls and bells with a wave of his hand. He’s not one for traipsing around without a glamour among the people the way Ignis likes to. He’d much prefer to ignore the procession _entirely,_ but there’s the problem of the reason it’s being held for _him_ and not _Ignis_ , anyway.

Ignis is a god of war. He’s the sort that bestows mettle and genius to his acolytes and takes sacrifice in the form of good company and riches. It’s not that he even _needs_ them, per se, but it’s how he loves to glitter.

Noctis had asked Ifrit once, why Ignis was the sort to dress in a manner more grand than his own Patron, and received only a hearty laugh and a secret smile. He’d been directed to look upon Shiva and her own Child with a soft nudge.

The Frostbearer and her Messengers are resplendent in white and silver while at summit. They exhale mist and speak in tones not unlike the singing of ice during midwinter. Shiva herself is a monolith of iridescent blue, clothing made of her namesake and multiple times as strong.

Gentiana is at her side, a Messenger whom Shiva chose as an avatar for walking among the mortals of Eos’s creation. She’s wearing white, a departure from her usual black and gold Lucian finery. It suits her, Noctis thinks. The contrast between her bluntly cut obsidian hair and the high necked gown makes her stand out at Her Ladyship’s side not unlike the crest of a snowy mountain.

Then, there’s Prompto.

Prompto is much like Noctis, a mortal who was given godhood in return for a great sacrifice. He’s been around far longer than Noctis himself and likes to joke about how things were “back in the day” like Noctis hadn’t lived through a good portion of the eras he speaks of.

He’s a beacon of gold, the sunset on a tundra painted in shades of brilliant yellow and orange with the barest touch of Her colors. He’s warm, for one of Shiva’s, with hands that don’t always set ice blooming in fractal patterns across Noctis’s arms when they touch. His freckles are golden, too, and remind Noctis of the stars he ushers to sleep while raising the dawn.

Ignis wears Ifrit’s colors, yes, but he’d fit Shiva’s kin better than he would His Lordship’s. He’s too bright to be ice, too generous for a flame. Noctis chuckles to himself. Ignis will always just be Ignis, a utopia of light nearly bright enough to set Bahamut’s own to shame.

Noctis likes his clothing as-is more than he does that of his usual glamour. It’s comfortable to be able to float about the sky and build himself new palettes every morning without worrying about coattails, or ribbons dragging through his work. There’s really no need for shoes when he never touches the ground.

But, for the sake of finding out why it is he is given such tribute, he would wear them.

Descending to the realm of mortals never loses its curiosity. It’s like every time he blinks, it’s already changed from one century to the next. He’s gone from togas to pinafores, jeans and suits to eons old pajamas. He changes his glamour the closer he gets to being seen, settling on something similar to the palanquin bearers, and settles down in a corner nearest the old fishwives. They like to talk, gossip not quite what they spin, and Noctis hears what he needs to know almost too quickly to catch.

They’ve brought him a king.

He knows of this king, that he’s of a sort to pick up weapons to protect instead of destroy. He’s a skilled combatant whose blade has tasted the blood of many and whose mind is easily sharper than the kukris he wields in battle.

Noctis knows his name.

The drums come rushing back in like the Fulgurian’s rolling thunder.

To a war god, ceremonial drums are their heartbeat. The wine poured into the fire their boiling blood. To Noctis, the farthest thing from a strategist, or the sort to bless his Favored with untameable strength, it’s unfamiliar to the highest degree.

He’s used to quiet prayer, incense left to fill the marble of his temple in delicate swirls. He’s used to quiet _people._

But, of course, what he’s given for his favor is a king soon to sit on his altar whose presence alone speaks volumes in a single moment.

He flows inward with the crowd, smooth as smoke between the gaps in revelers. There’s a break between that of the _true_ procession and the public marked in wealth of clothing. The nobility escorting their king are covered head to toe in their House colors, flora crafted into jewelry and gilded for show. The common people are a riot of sound, a true spectrum of hues only Galahd’s craftspeople can achieve.

Noctis allows a young woman to drape a necklace of leaves over his shoulders, a child to place a wreath of flowers and knotted fabric on his head, and leaves them with a token of his own. He slips coins from the air to stack on counters of shops he passes in exchange for pilfered goods, hands alight where they select pastries and aromatic meats from carts and kitchen alike. He drapes those he passes in his own colors, painting them like a comet’s tail, in return for the festivities (however unwarranted they may be).

The celebration is wild and lasts long into the night, Noctis having retreated far earlier to float through his temple unseen. He’d finished his food and licked his fingers clean near dusk. Unfortunately for him, even after lounging ever so patiently in his doorway hour after hour, the party does not ease.

The nobles retire after leaving their own respective offerings, but the king does not. He settles carefully, cautiously, at the foot of Noctis’s throne to wait.

Truly, it’s but a bare imitation of the splendor he’s afforded in the sky, but it’s a _gift_ and Noctis has never been one to ignore those who entreat him, so he settles down on the dark marble and allows himself to be seen.

His namesake is the night sky. It is he who ushers the stars to rest and brings the dawn every morning. It’s not even close to the first time he’s been observed by mortals, nor is it the first time he’s stolen their breath away as if he’d brought them into his Domain high above the stratosphere.

Ancient texts from before Solheim’s era tell of a dawn that came ever later until Eos was left in darkness, slumbering while the Scourge stole from her children and twisted them to daemons. With the darkness came the first King (or, really, the Astrals’ mistake of blessing the Caelum line) and the rest is literal history.

Noctis was the last of his blood, the True King meant to cleanse Eos of her plague one and for all. Of course, such sacrifice meant he was owed more than the Six could give him in any mortal life.

They offered him an idyllic afterlife inside Eos’s own dream.

He became a god, instead.

With his assumed godhood came his own Domain, a realm all to his own to care for and cultivate, and worshippers that believed him to be the one who could answer their prayers. He was given the Dawn to keep all to himself, colors dripping into each other in a cloak made half of night and half of day, and lives for the sunrise.

He’s never been of the vain sort, but the way Galahd’s mortal king looks at him makes him believe he’d nearly hung the moon and stars for him alone, or brought flames to man the way Ifrit had done all those eons ago.

It’s nearly enough to make him preen.

Noctis instead settles for smoothing his hands down his robes, gauzy things made of a blue nearly too dark to be known as anything but black and studded with fallen stars, and taking stock of the time he has left before dawn calls him to work once again from the slowly lightening blue at the hem of his cloak.

It takes a lot of control to get himself to smile down at his first human sacrifice (and _wow_ does that sound strange to say) and ask in a voice nearly too even to be his, “Why is it that you offer yourself so willingly to me, Nyx Ulric?”

His temple is silent, sounds filtering in as if they’re both far underwater. Noctis waits for an answer. He’s not one to peer inside minds and discern those worthy from stolen attributes alone. He’s only done that a handful of times and it’s a true necessity when fulfilling his duties in choosing and ordaining a new King of Light (and that’s at least a few centuries from now, he knows. The mortals have been doing well for themselves).

The king clears his throat, face contorted by an apologetic smile the moment after. His voice is smooth with confidence when he responds, “You’ll have to forgive me for my lack of manners, Dawnbringer. I was unprepared to lay witness to your beauty.

Noctis bites back a retort. He is not the sort to “have to” do _anything._ Rather, it’s those who come to him for favors who would find themselves prostrate before him. It would be blaspheme any other way.

It’s only the compliment that gives him pause.

“You dare order me offer you forgiveness, then have the gall to cover it with empty flattery,” he jokes, voice flat like he’s truly offended, and watches as the king cycles through so many emotions it’s as if his face is a storybook. “I’m kidding, you know,” he amends. “It’s not every day I receive such a handsome visitor, so you’ll permit me some fun, won’t you?”

Nyx laughs, then, and it’s a nearly startling sound in contrast to the tense atmosphere. “Well, then, I’ll have to pay my respects to you more often. Although I’m not sure what else I’ll have to give on any other occasion. I was hoping you’d accept anything of mine in return for a blessing my people so desperately need,” he remarks, already calmer for not having been smote after his blunder.

The king isn’t so colorful as his people, more the sort whose personality gives him a nitid aura rather than the silver woven into his braids. His eyes are warm with unfiltered curiosity same as his bold smile. Noctis peers down at him all too carefully for it, guarding himself from the perpetual greed he knows is coming.

“And what is it that you would offer yourself, your title, and your people to me,” the god inquires. He pulls a page from Ignis’s book and narrows his eyes as if seconds away from incinerating Nyx for his certitude. “You _do_ know what would happen, given you fail to gain my favor?”

“I do,” the king replies, standing from where he’d settled down. Each step he takes toward the foot of Noctis’s throne is like a death toll, a dare unwarranted and taken of desperation. His eyes burn with fire when he locks eyes with the god he’s set to petition. “So I will ask you but once and accept any terms you deem fit for my impudence. My people are on the brink of war with another. I can take no chances in protecting them from harm, given I fail to drive Niflheim away. Please, for the sake of protecting their continued livelihood, I need your favor. Will you grant me this one demand?”

Noctis feels himself flush, flustered by both the earnest request and the sudden increase in proximity. His voice cracks the barest amount when he invites Nyx to stand before him. When descended from his Domain, he’s no larger than most of Eos’s mortal inhabitants. His hands are calloused by centuries of work when he places them over the king’s heart. “This is all I want. Protect it and you will have my eternal blessing.”

Nyx lifts one of Noctis’s hands to his lips, laying the barest of kisses over the crest of his knuckles. “You have my word, Dawnbringer.”

“Noctis,” the god blurts, face a startling shade of deep pink. He feels like the heat of midday is radiating from his cheeks. “It’s, uh, Noctis. My name.”

“You have my word, then, _Noctis,”_ Nyx purrs and it’s like the heavens tilt on their axis in the aftermath of that sound. The way his lips and tongue curl around it is outright _sinful._

Noctis fights his urge to turn around and dissolve into the aether to warp his way straight to Prompto and ask how the hell Shiva manages everyone’s love lives when he’s struggling with the barest bit of flirtation. He places the hand Nyx had kissed on the crown of his new hero’s head and anoints him with prayer.

“In return for your sacrifice, I give you my blessing. May you always find solace in the dawn,” he whispers. There’s the slightest breeze that snuffs out the candles placed along the steps and Noctis leaves with it, ghosting a kiss of his own to his Chosen’s cheek.

_Be safe, my Hero._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, Kudos, and concrit are all appreciated!! <3
> 
> Yell at/with me on:  
> Tumblr: Kiriami-sama  
> Twitter: FlamingAceKiri


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